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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28982403">Endear Myself To You</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/MovesLikeBucky/pseuds/MovesLikeBucky'>MovesLikeBucky</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens - Neil Gaiman &amp; Terry Pratchett</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Because that's the dynamic, Book Omens Week (Good Omens), Endearments, First Kiss, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Moron 4 Moron, Sloppy Makeouts, but be aware of that, but nothing sexual actually happens, there's a thigh between someone's leg but like it's not detailed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 09:01:28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,044</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28982403</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/MovesLikeBucky/pseuds/MovesLikeBucky</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It's an otherwise normal day in the shop, until Crowley calls Aziraphale "hon".</p><p>And, really, that just won't do at all.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>50</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>214</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Endear Myself To You</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/OuidaMForeman/gifts">OuidaMForeman</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>My first ever actually-book-omens-fic for Book Omens Week 2021!</p><p>I have to gift this to my friend Ouida, who gave me the prompt and who encouraged me to write the book boys &lt;3</p><p>And a big thank you to Phoenix of Athena for the beta read &lt;3 &lt;3</p><p> </p><p>  <b>Heads up just because this is really verging on an M rated fic; they get very hot and heavy but nothing sexual actually happens</b></p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It starts off suddenly, a quick shot of lightning - blink and you’ll miss it.  And Aziraphale very nearly does, all things considered.</p><p>It happens after the end of the world, because when else could it ever?  Nothing grand, just a mundane day in his bookshop, reshelving things and moving them so the regulars don’t start tracking his system.  This day and age the moldy smell isn’t enough, he has to do <em> more </em>, has to make a better effort to keep them away.</p><p>The bell above the door jingles and Crowley slinks in, all long limbs and too many bones, hands shoved deep into his pockets as he slithers through the shop. </p><p>“Oh, hello dear, make yourself at home. I’ll be ready to go in a jiffy.”</p><p>“Sure thing, hon,” Crowley says quickly as he drifts to the backroom and the well worn sofa.  Aziraphale can hear the springs on the old thing creak as he falls onto it, the clink of his boots as he props them on the coffee table.  Nothing amiss about that at all.</p><p>He puts a book on the shelf, then a second and a third before he freezes.  Surely he must have been hearing things, Crowley couldn’t possibly have said…there’s no way on earth.  But being an angel does bless Aziraphale with a very good short term memory, and no matter how many times he plays it back, it was there, sure as anything.</p><p>Crowley, with all the enthusiasm of someone waiting for pedestrian light to change, just called him “hon”.</p><p>He starts towards the backroom, thinks better of it and shakes his head, and then goes back to this shelving.  But it keeps playing in his mind, over and over, like a broken record on his gramophone:</p><p>
  <em> Sure thing, hon. </em>
</p><p>Hon.  Short for “honey” in most reasonable circumstances.  Honey, as an endearment.  One who is sweet, or one who someone is sweet on.  Is Crowley sweet on him?  Is he capable of that?  Would Aziraphale even <em> want </em> that?  </p><p>Sure, he may have thought of it before, as their hands grazed over a glass of wine or as they talked in low,  hushed voices at the opera.  He stares at his books, reshelving long forgotten, mulling over centuries of interaction and conversation in his head, trying to find what he’d missed.  Was it when they started the arrangement?  Could they have been an item since then without him even knowing?</p><p>Aziraphale takes a deep breath and tugs on the edge of his jumper, an adjustment that’s more for sake of movement than strict necessity.  This won’t do.  He’s never been a fan of not knowing things; that’s why he has so many books in the first place.  No, he’s going to march right into that backroom and demand that Crowley tell him just what is going on here.</p><p>“Crowley!” He shouts, causing the demon to startle from his position, glasses falling askew off his face.  “Crowley, <em> what </em> is going on?”</p><p>“Jus’ playing my phone games, angel,” Crowley says, sheepishly holding up his phone.</p><p>“Not that!  Before!  What’s gotten into you?”</p><p>Crowley makes several noises with his mouth that could be likened to a computer booting up.  “Aziraphale, I’ve been back here, doing nothing, waiting for you to finish whatever your latest customer deterrent is.”  He hops up off of the sofa, fixes his sunglasses and straightens his tie.  “Which, by the way, we’ll be late for our reservation if we don’t leave soon.”</p><p>Aziraphale fumbles for his pocket watch and sees the hour has gotten quite a bit later than he had intended.  Perhaps he was just peckish.  That would have to be the explanation; there’s no way he could have not <em> noticed </em> if their relationship had developed further.  He’s far too clever for that.</p><p>“Right, I do hope you got the right table this time.”</p><p>“It’s the Savoy, angel, I always get us the same table.”</p><p>They settle into a familiar and warm bickering as Aziraphale closes up shop, and they head out for dinner.  He does his best to ignore the simmering thoughts and feelings that want to bubble to the surface.</p><hr/><p>Time goes on, as it does (albeit at a much different pace for them).  They still get the occasional odd job for Heaven or Hell, but for the most part they’ve been deemed incompetent and left to their own devices.  They still go to lunches and the opera and the park, and all things considered, not much has changed.</p><p>Aziraphale would really like for some things to change.</p><p>A month after what Aziraphale has deemed “the incident,” things are all but back to normal.  The difference is that he can’t stop thinking about it, noticing things he never has bothered to before.  Like the shape of Crowley’s lips when he calls him ‘angel,’ or the way his fingers wrap around the stem of a wine glass: gentle but steady, and suddenly infuriatingly fascinating.  He’d kept it under wraps so well before, this blooming love that sits in the depths of his soul for the only companion worth being around.  But with one word, one sentence, everything is different.</p><p>And yet everything is still mind numbingly the same.  It’s like a dull knife carving under his ribcage, stabbing into him and cutting him open so all these emotions and feelings can fall out and stain the floorboards.</p><p>He fidgets around Crowley now, minces his words when he hadn’t before.  Crowley, in all his anxious energy, either doesn’t notice or is well-mannered enough not to point it out (Aziraphale knows where the bets on <em> that </em> would go), but that somehow makes it worse.  If it keeps up he’ll have to say something, won’t have another recourse other than to disappear for a century and hope it goes away.</p><p>And really, he has a shop to run, he can’t be expected to do that — even if he doesn’t sell anything; even if that may just be a thinly veiled excuse to not spend that much time away from Crowley.  He’s not examining that too closely.</p><p>After two months have passed, he thinks he may have a handle on it.  He only stares at Crowley’s hand near his knee for thirty minutes at a time at the theatre instead of his previous hour (even if every atom of him is still screaming to reach out).  He’s made efforts to keep their fingers from brushing over wine bottles in the backroom (regrettably sobering up almost as soon as he works up a decent buzz to do so, but needs must).  And even now, he’s keeping his hands locked firmly behind his back as Crowley tosses bread to the ducks, insisting it’s proper demonic activity because it’s bad for them (Aziraphale does not miss how the bread turns into frozen peas as soon as it hits the water, but says nothing, because he is polite).</p><p>“Puffs them up like balloons, makes ‘em gassy.”  Crowley says with a smirk as another piece of bread hits the water, shifting immediately and against its will into a vegetable.</p><p>“Yes, of course, my dear.  Properly demonic of you.”  Aziraphale says, doing his best not to find Crowley’s workaround something so base as <em> endearing </em>.</p><p>“Gotta let the nervous energy out somewhere, sweetheart.”  Crowley doesn’t notice Aziraphale bristle at the word, keeps on talking.  “Hell doesn’t have much for me to do, gotta get my kicks somewhere, so I’ll torture the waterfowl.”</p><p>Aziraphale is frozen to the spot as Crowley expounds on just how evil his deeds are and just how <em> wonderfully horrible </em> he is as a demon.  Sweetheart.  A combination of sweet (charming or delightful) and heart (where the emotions lie).  An old fashioned word, even if still in use.  An implication once again of being sweet on someone, of liking them in a romantic sense.  Aziraphale’s hands fist together tighter behind his back, trying to stop the tremor that is suddenly wracking through them.</p><p>“Crowley…”</p><p>“And then they chase the parkgoers, so no point in messing with the geese, they’re perfectly hellish already.”</p><p>“<em> Crowley. </em>” Aziraphale says his name with more force behind it, causing the demon to turn to him, yellow eyes peeking out over the rim of his ridiculous aviators.</p><p>“Wot?”</p><p>“Why did you call me that.”</p><p>“Call you what?” Crowley says with obvious confusion; whether it’s feigned or not, Aziraphale wouldn’t be able to say.</p><p>“You called me <em> sweetheart </em>.”</p><p>Crowley is silent for a moment, eyes wide behind his glasses.  He swallows thickly, and Aziraphale can see him trembling slightly.  “Did I?”</p><p>“Yes, and I would quite like to know why.”  </p><p>“Just a word, angel,” Crowley says a bit shakily, “No need to get angry about it.”</p><p>“I am asking when words like ‘hon’ and ‘sweetheart’ became a part of our repartee, <em> darling. </em>”  Aziraphale spits the word out with more malice than he had intended, but it works nonetheless.  Crowley opens and closes his mouth, but no words come out.  Azirpahale thinks for a moment that Crowley quite looks like a fish.   Every moment that Crowley doesn’t speak stretches out between them, makes Aziraphale crumble just slightly.  He’s not sure what he expected, but Crowley’s corporation is giving him away.  The nervous sweat on his brow, the wide eyes with no whites to be seen, the tremor in his fingers; this is not what Crowley wants at all.</p><p>“Right, I think I’m going home.”</p><p>Aziraphale turns on his heel and starts back to the bookshop, walking faster than he has in a very long time.  He’s vaguely aware of Crowley calling out to him and following him, but he ignores it.  Crowley will take the hint, will leave and go back to his flat and take out whatever nonsense this is on his plants.  Better that way, really.</p><p>The bookshop door swings open of its own accord when Aziraphale approaches and then slams closed behind him as he makes his way to the backroom.  Sinking into his favorite chair, he lets himself cry just a bit.  He lets the frustration and anger and sadness of it all wash over him for just a moment.  He doesn’t move when the door slams open, doesn’t move when Crowley shouts through the bookshop.</p><p>“Angel, what the Heaven are you on about?”  Crowley storms into the backroom, tossing his sunglasses to a side table.  “What is <em> wrong </em> with you lately?  You’re nervous and fidgety and you don’t talk to me like you used to and you don’t… you don’t touch me like you did.  And I know that sounds dumb, but what’s going on?”</p><p>“What’s going on?” Aziraphale’s voice is soft, with just a hint of steel to it, “What’s going <em> on</em>?”  He’s on his feet with a speed only found in principalities of heaven, crowding Crowley against the fireplace mantle and pinning him there, hands fisted in the silk of his overpriced and ridiculous shirt.  “Why do you keep <em> taunting </em> me?”</p><p>“Taunting you?” Crowley scoffs even as his voice breaks on the words, “The only person here taunting anyone, pumpkin, is you!”</p><p>“That!”  Aziraphale grips his shirt harder, lifting and pinning him off the ground,  “That right there is exactly it!  Why do you keep doing that?”</p><p>“Doing what?!” Crowley shouts as his feet try to touch the ground, dangling as they are.  His hands grip Aziraphale’s arms, trying to keep himself steady but still clearly flinching under Aziraphale’s gaze.</p><p>“Hon and sweetheart and pumpkin — <em> why </em> do you keep calling me names like that?”  Aziraphale’s heavy breaths mingle in the air with Crowley’s own, a push and pull of warmth between them with no room for anything else.  Crowley’s eyes dart back and forth, searching for something in Aziraphale’s steely gray ones.  For what, Aziraphale isn’t sure.</p><p>“Because I feel like it, dove.”  It’s said with a nervous smirk, one that doesn’t reach Crowley’s eyes.  All at once Aziraphale is unable to take it anymore.</p><p>He pushes Crowley back against the mantle, covers the demon’s lips with his own, ignoring the squeak that Crowley makes (because he would never admit to squeaking anyway, and then they’d be back where they started).  He has the absolute audacity to kiss Aziraphale back, to let his hands drift up Aziraphale’s shoulders and encircle his neck, to pull him in even further and deeper.  </p><p>“<em>Dearheart </em>,” Aziraphale sneers at him when they break before Crowley surges back in again, wicked tongue dragging along the seam of Aziraphale’s lips.  Aziraphale parts for him with a moan, kissing him deeply, working at the buttons of Crowley’s stupid silk shirt before giving up and just pulling instead, popping them one by one to locations unknown in the bookshop.</p><p>“<em>Gah! </em> ” Crowley gasps against his lips as the cold air hits his skin.  There’s a ripple along his sides, under Aziraphale’s palms, as smooth skin turns to scales.  He hisses low in his throat, "<em>Sssssssugar.” </em>  </p><p>Sugar.  Meaning sweet, meaning delightful and wanted and lovely and… Sod all of that.</p><p>Aziraphale growls at him, kissing him again and pressing him into the brickwork of the mantle, committing the taste of his tongue to memory.  Crowley tastes like coffee, the flavor lingering from the cafe across from the park that morning.  </p><p>Crowley’s deft fingers pull and tug at Aziraphale’s sweater vest, and they part just long enough for him to pull it up over Aziraphale’s head, the angel's glasses clattering to the floor as he does.  They dive back in almost immediately, a human need and desire that Aziraphale has never let himself feel before now.  “Sweetling,” Aziraphale groans as he pulls Crowley’s bottom lip with his teeth, living for the whining and needy noises it earns him.  </p><p>Aziraphale pushes the silk shirt off Crowley’s shoulders, barely aware of the act as Crowley works open the buttons of his blue one.  He rakes his nails through Aziraphale’s chest hair, making the angel groan and throw his head back.</p><p>‘Pigeon’, ‘Honey’, and ‘Sexy’ are kissed into Aziraphale’s collar bones.</p><p>‘Darling’, ‘Dearest’, and ‘Poppet’ Are sucked into bruises on Crowley’s chest.</p><p>They trade endearments wrapped in fake vitriol, each begetting more kissing, more heavy breathing.  Aziraphale slots his thigh between Crowley’s legs, rubbing it against him, making the demon writhe and moan.</p><p>And on that moan there’s one word, uttered soft enough that Aziraphale almost misses it.  But this one, he never could.</p><p>“<em>Love,” </em>Crowley gasps out, back arching as Aziraphale grips his hips that much tighter.  </p><p>Love.  As in with the capital L, uttered on a shuddered breath in the heat of the moment.  Love.  Like the warmth of a friend, the constance of a companion.  Love.</p><p>Love; that’s what Aziraphale has been trying to name.</p><p>He freezes and gently lowers Crowley to the ground.  “Love?  Crowley…you just called me…<em>love? </em>”</p><p>Crowley’s eyes go wide.  “Fuck, angel, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have…I can go, I can leave.  Just forget I said it—”</p><p>Aziraphale hooks a finger around Crowley’s chin, pulls him back to face him once more.  The air isn’t charged the same way as before, something else is hanging heavy there.  Something much more important as Aziraphale wraps his arm around Crowley’s waist, pulls him in close and rests their foreheads together.</p><p>“Love,” Aziraphale says on a shaky breath, “Is that what this is about?”</p><p>“I thought you knew already,” Crowley says as he swallows heavily, “Thought angels could sense it.”</p><p>“I am now, now that I’m stopping to look.  It’s all around me, everywhere.  Must’ve been blind not to notice it before.”  Aziraphale kisses Crowley’s cheek gently, thumb stroking his chin lightly, “Oh, my only.  You should’ve just told me.”</p><p>“S’not like you feel the same, is it?”  Crowley asks, hope and fear mixing in his words, mingling with Aziraphale’s breath and tingling on his lips.  Aziraphale turns his head gently, kisses him soft and sweet.</p><p>“Oh, darling, I have loved you for longer than even I know.”</p><p>“<em>Angel,” </em> Crowley breathes before kissing him again, slower and with more purpose this time.  And now, knowing what he’s looking for, Aziraphale can feel the weight that has always been behind that word.  The thinly veiled endearment it has been for as long as he can remember.  Every time it’s been said in greeting, every time it’s accompanied an exasperated sigh, even when it’s been shouted in anger or sneered with malcontent - it’s always been that.  An endearment, a prayer, and a promise.  Crowley has been shouting it for as long as Aziraphale can remember, and now that he knows to listen he hears it loud and clear.</p><p>Aziraphale loops an arm under Crowley’s thighs, not breaking the kiss as he hoists him up.  Crowley yelps against his lips, but winds his arms around Aziraphale’s neck tighter, locks his ankles behind Aziraphale’s back as he’s carried over to the old worn sofa.  </p><p>True endearments and sentiments are pressed into Crowley’s skin.  ‘Precious’ is whispered onto his jawline.  ‘Treasure’ is bitten into a collarbone.  ‘My only’ is pressed deeply with a kiss to his chest, right over his scattershot heartbeat.  The same litany falls from Crowley’s lips at each one.  “I love you, I love you, I love you.”</p><p>A small miracle is spared to make the sofa comfortable for two, and Aziraphale pulls Crowley into his arms; Crowley’s head is pillowed on his chest at just the right angle for him to run his fingers through Crowley’s dark hair.  </p><p>“Not that I’m not glad for where we’re at suddenly, love,” Aziraphale asks after a time, “But what exactly were you hoping to accomplish?  Why not just come out and tell me?”</p><p>Crowley groans and nuzzles in closer, Aziraphale’s heart aches with love for him.</p><p>“Dn’t know if you’d feel the same.  Testing the waters.”</p><p>“Was a strange way to test the waters, my dearest.  What would you have done had I not returned your affections?”</p><p>He’s answered only by a snore, a deep breath that tickles through his chest hair as Crowley sleeps.  Aziraphale rolls his eyes, summons a book and his glasses.  There will be time for talk in the morning, maybe even more than that.  But for now, he’s content.  He kisses the top of Crowley’s head, opens up to his bookmark, and settles in for a long and peaceful night on the sofa.</p>
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